The Last Light
by Reading Addicted
Summary: "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." -Oscar Wilde. Invariably, all things must come to an end. Might civilizations collapse; people die every second. Allison knows this without a doubt. She just didn't expect her time to come so soon. Can the Doctor help her rewrite her fate?
1. Prologue

_'We cannot solve our problem with the same thinking we used when we created them.' – Albert Einstein._

"They are the hope for a dying world. If you remove them, an entire civilization will die!" The person on the receiving end of these yells stonily ignored them as he stalked off in a pair of red Converse. Frustrated, the one yelling strode after The Doctor. She needed to make him see the logic; this was the only way it could work.

"Are you really willing to murder an entire civilization just for the sake of your beloved humans?" The women would have passed for human if it weren't for her skin. The texture of an elephants hide, memories played out on the bareness. The only place that no images played out was her face, a light blue similar to a midday's sky on Earth. Her two eyes were focused on the man in the trench coat, the obstruction of years of meticulous planning. Was he really so self-righteous that he'd let her people fade out like a candle light?

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, just a few yards away from a ledge. He tilted back his head to gaze up at the faint stars that were peeking out of their shells. He seemed to be profoundly contemplating his next words, like a wise man about to be executed. "Why shouldn't I?"

The woman quickly parried words, mistaking his soft tone for leniency. "It would be more deaths on your hands." Thinking she'd struck the Doctor's morality, the woman waited for him to concede.

The Doctor took a deep breath, and with a disturbingly calm exhale, he turned to look. "Death. Death. Death. Is that all you have?" He scoffed and started walking towards the woman. "I've seen enough death, caused enough to make even the worst of you shudder and cry out like infants. I have enough blood on my hands to drown the oceans." The volume didn't increase to more than a hair over a whisper, but the fury spoke leagues of its own. "Don't talk to me about death."

She backed up in fear, the images on dancing on her skin revolving faster. The rough soil beneath her feet began to tremble; she had gone to close to the edge of the canyon. Her weight was causing it to crumble. "Doctor, please-" She was cut off.

"Everything has its time. And everything ends." The Doctor had cast his lot. He was paying for the humans, who were going about their daily little lives trillions of light-years away. In the end, he would always pay. He began to walk away, not looking back at her. Their conversation was over.

Tears of a diluted began to leak out of the corners of her eyes. Their conversation was over. She could hear the unlocking of a TARDIS, and at the Doctor stepped back in, he offered his trademark world of solace. "I'm sorry." The door closed, and he left for Earth.

The woman landed at the bottom of the trench with a trench. As the sky darkened, laughter and red blood leaked out of her. This was wonderful. Fantastic. She had screwed up everything so greatly not even Lord Akron could fix this. She gazed up at the burning dots of light that were ascending into her sky. Within five years, there wouldn't even be a planet for any remnant of her people to gaze from.

Her planet was dying. There was no arguing that fact. There was nowhere her people could go; no hope for their survival. A noise, something between a cackle and a cough, came out of her throat. Now, there was no hope for her.

The stars seemed to smile down on her. Stars. Lights sent from the heavens. A fitting last sight for her. With a sigh, she left on a new voyage; death.

In his little blue box, the Doctor set his coordinates for Earth. The U.S.A, March, 1962. Something was happening in that noble country; something that could bring it to its knees. If left unchecked, it would inevitably fester, and monsters would be created from the pus.

The Doctor had made his choice. Once he began, there would be no regretting until after he'd gotten it done. It was the one rule he lived by now. Get the job done, and then fix the mess he left behind afterwards. "Set the coordinates. We have work to do."

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.**

**Well, that was cheerful. I got the idea in math class. I was reading about quantum mechanics, and this story was born. If you want to find out what the heck this means, I'd recommend following. I'd love it if you left a review. Creative criticism is much appreciated.**

**Make it better, and have a lovely day!**


	2. Chapter One

"_If there is no struggle, there is no progress." – Frederick Douglass._

Ignoring the chattering of lackey high schoolers, I walked down the breezy road from the bus stop to my house. I lived at the house at the end of the lane. Being thirteen, I didn't have a car nor would my mom allow me to catch a ride home. So, the bus was my only mode of transportation to get home from school every day. Besides, it's not like anyone would want me in their car anyway.

I kicked a rock into the tall grass, and it skittered a few times before stopping. Friction at its best. I kept walking home and forgot about the rock. Walking at the speed I normally did, which was slow, it'd take me about fifteen minutes to get home. As the other students hurried past me, my mind began to wander to what had happened earlier that week.

On Sunday, I had been walking back from the library with a large bag of books. What else would you get at a library? Being oblivious to read while walking, I had begun to walk across the street. Either by chance or stupidity on my part, a car speeding by nearly made me one with the glorious asphalt.

A hand grabbed my elbow and pulled me back onto the curb in the nick of time. "Careful there." I had turned around to see a slim man with a definite British accent wearing the oddest arrangement of clothing. Who would wear red Converse with a blue suit and trench coat? I tried to thank him, but he ran off to quickly for me to let him know I was grateful.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen him around. He had been at the grocery store one afternoon sniffing bananas, and another time, I'd seen him investigating the old Tate house. I had always shrugged it off, but that Sunday was the first time I'd seen him face to face. Brushing off the experience, I finished my journey. Later that night, I was sorting through my books when I pulled out one that I hadn't checked out at the library.

A cold wind snapped me out of my reverie, and I whipped my head up. The other teenagers had already gone home, and I was by myself on the road home. When wasn't I alone? Picking up my pace, I speed walked until I reached my house.

I got out my key and unlocked the front door. I didn't bother telling anyone I was home; Mom worked until nine, and even until midnight on other days. She was a surgeon at the local hospital, the sole breadwinner in our family of two. I didn't need her most of the time anyway.

I walked up the stairs to my bedroom, dropping my backpack on the desk's chair as I walked to my bed. Flopping onto the soft mattress, I let out a melodramatic typical teenage groan. School had been the same bland, monotonous routine it had been since the start of seventh grade. Mom had said it'd be more enriching by October; it was November, and things still hadn't gotten better. I buried my head into the pillow, but I nearly jumped out of my skin as a loud crash reverberated through the house.

The chair had fallen over. Giving out a sigh of relief, I got off my bed and manually stood it upright again. This was getting old. Ever since I had turned thirteen over the summer, weird things had been happening to me. Not just to me, but _because _of me. Objects fell; people did what I wanted them to; strangers told me their problem. It had freaked me out a bit at first, but it turns out I could control it. Well, not all of the time or very well.

The things I could do, I just kept them sort of bottled in. When I got distracted, scared, or upset, something like that chair falling over would happen. It scared and thrilled me at the same time. The only useful thing I had been able to use it for was getting books off without leaving my bed. Telekinesis; literally mind over matter.

Speaking of books, I held my hand to the right to where my dresser was. Feeling a pull in my stomach, I grabbed onto that feeling and stretched it out like taffy. As I concentrated, the thing I was mentally pulling on came into my outstretched hand. A satisfied feeling filled me, and I sat down into the chair and propped my feet on the cherry wood desk.

It was the book the mysterious man had, or at least likely had, slipped me three days ago. It was Wednesday, but I hadn't got the chance to look at it yet. It was a simple blue book with no external markings on the outside. This struck me as odd. A journal perhaps?

I flipped it open. The paper was white with a thick, creamy texture on its flawless pages. Startlingly clear photographs had been meticulously glued in. Notes filled the rest of the available space, and they had been written in a language I had never seen before. Hebrew, perhaps? No, this script had too many thin lines and rounded edges to be Hebrew, which was thick and sharp like porcupine quill.

I quickly flipped through the pages. The first one was of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a hospital bassinet. He looked normal enough, but he had a green tinge to him, not soft and red like healthy newborns. My curiosity spiked, and I kept going through the book.

The next few were of similar children, all newborns with greenish skin. The writings beneath them all looked synonymous, with differing symbols near the edge. I pulled my sandy brown hair behind my ears so my reading wouldn't be disrupted. I cast a quick glance at the clock; it read 5:15. It would be hours before Mom got off of work.

The next picture was a little more normal. It was of a brown-haired teenage boy. He was in a classroom with other students. It seemed like everyone else was socializing, but he was at a desk by himself, writing in a notebook. He had glanced at whoever was snapping the photo with an annoyed expression on his face, as if he'd rather be anywhere but in the classroom. His eyes were cold and blue, and they made me shiver a bit. The writing of the book seemed to take on an offensive stance, as if whoever was writing had gotten angry

The next few were of common plants and deer. This seemed normal enough, but the writing underneath was frantic. The last picture was what made me slam the book on the table.

It was a group of teenagers, all in a morgue. They were on the table. The notes on page were in plain English. It read, "Run". Four knocks sounded on the front door.

**Response to Reviews: **

**Gramayre: Thanks, man! Don't worry, this definitely won't be a romance. I'll work on the grammar. *hugs***

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